When the sky threw down hail, I knewour world was sudden, changing. In the violence of rainswe ran, I held my daughter with her water-soaked braids.She covered her ears and counted one Mississippi, two Mississippithe space between lightning and thunder.

is what she said, but what mattered was the tone—not a drive-by spondee and never the fricativeconnotation as verb, but from her mouthvoweled, often preceeded by well, with the “u” lowas if dipping up homemade ice cream, waiting to be servedlast so that she’d scoop from the bottomwhere all the good stuff had settled down.

Across the white highway, dogs drift unmooredSilver-tipped seagrass, but no cactus. An offingof shopping plazas, their harsh light and low roofs.That's the way with drought; first dissent,a worm belief that one place could be another.I bet it feels good to twist a head of cottonclean from the stem's fat and browning boll.I bet it feels good to stand in irrigated rows.